Through the Fire
by ImpishTubist
Summary: It isn't until after Moriarty's death that John begins to realize what the madman has truly cost Sherlock.


**Notes:** De-anon from a prompt on the kinkmeme. This is a revised and slightly expanded version of that original fill.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

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><p>A muffled pounding at the door startled John out of his concentration, and he accidentally added an extra 'e' to the word he had been typing.<p>

"Get the door, would you, John?" Sherlock called from the kitchen. "That'll be Lestrade."

"He has a key," John said, somewhat irritably. Sherlock had been working non-stop for the past week, and that meant he had been working as well - in addition to his shifts at the surgery. He was beyond exhausted. "Anyway, it's open."

"Yes, thank you, John, I do realize that. However, he'll have his son with him and won't have a free hand with which to _open_ said door."

"His what?"

"Just answer it, John!"

Grumbling to himself, John hauled himself up off the sofa and went over to the door. He opened it to reveal Lestrade standing on the other side, a young child in his arms, his foot raised in mid-kick.

"Ah, sorry, John," he said sheepishly, shifting the load in his arms. John stared at him.

"I didn't - sorry - you have a kid?"

"John, invite the man in and stop badgering him! We have work to do," Sherlock called impatiently from the kitchen.

"Right, yes, sorry," John said quickly, stepping aside and allowing Lestrade to pass. The boy he was carrying was sprawled across his chest, fast asleep, arms wrapped loosely about the DI's neck and face hidden in his shoulder. He looked about four or five.

"My fault. I wouldn't have brought him along, but we were on our way back from holiday when I got Sherlock's message. Babysitter's off for the week, you see, and I can't just leave him -"

"No, right, of course not," John said quickly. "Sorry, it's just that Sherlock never said - well - anyway, what's his name?"

"Daniel. Sorry he's not more lively; been a long day," Lestrade said, shifting the boy and then wrapping his arms securely around the back of his son's legs, holding him in place. John led him into the kitchen, where Sherlock was bent over a microscope.

"Well?" Lestrade said when the detective didn't look up at his entrance. "You brought me all the way out here; I'm assuming it's for a reason. And, I hope, a good one."

Sherlock straightened. "Have a look."

Lestrade frowned but walked over to him all the same. Sherlock held out his arms for the boy and Lestrade gladly handed him over, cracking his neck as soon as he had been relieved of the extra weight. Daniel didn't appear to register the change of arms; he simply muttered something and buried his face in Sherlock's neck, sighing contentedly. John raised an eyebrow that no one saw and kept his burning questions to himself.

"So what exactly am I supposed to be seeing, here?"

"You don't know?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Sherlock, just come out and say it! I haven't the patience for one of your dramatic reveals tonight."

"These are soil samples from the suspect's shoes," Sherlock said impatiently. "They clearly show that he was in Brixton at the time of the murder; in fact, he was in Brixton all day. There are no other kinds of soils on his shoes, which means that he couldn't have been anywhere near where the victim was murdered."

"And there's no way he changed shoes?"

Sherlock leveled a look at him. "You don't think I've already considered that possibility?"

"Yeah, s'pose that was a dumb question," Lestrade muttered. "Won't ask how you figured that one out though; probably don't want to know."

At that moment, Daniel stirred in Sherlock's arms and blinked open deep brown eyes he had clearly gotten from his father. He lifted his head to lock eyes with Sherlock, staring at him for several moments in careful contemplation. John and Lestrade were quiet, watching the silent exchange between the detective and the child.

"Hello, Daniel," Sherlock said finally. He swiped a thumb across the Daniel's eyes, rubbing away the sleep.

"Hi," the boy whispered. He appeared too tired to muster much outward excitement, but John saw that the corners of his mouth had turned up the moment he recognized who was holding him. He was pleased to see Sherlock.

"Did you enjoy your vacation?"

"Yeah." Daniel scrubbed his eye with his fist. "We went to the sea."

"So your father had told me."

And then Daniel wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, clinging to him, and John felt as though he was intruding on a suddenly-private moment. Sherlock swallowed hard and laid his free hand on Daniel's back, and then glanced cautiously at Lestrade. The DI met his eyes for a moment and then looked away, passing a hand over his mouth and shifting his feet.

"Well, this certainly complicates things," he said finally as Daniel drew back from the hug. And just like that the spell was broken; Sherlock's mask was back in place and Lestrade was focusing again on the case.

"It more than complicates things," Sherlock retorted. "It - Daniel, do stop pulling my hair - it means that you have the wrong man."

"Yes, I realize that," Lestrade sighed, digging his phone out of his pocket. "Let me make a few calls. I'll be right back."

He slipped out of the kitchen and down the stairs, retreating to the front hall so as to have a bit of privacy.

"Daniel, this is my flatmate. Doctor Watson," Sherlock said, turning sideways so that the boy could see John. Daniel gave John a cautious look.

"Would you like something to eat, Daniel?" John offered, the words out of his mouth before he remembered that they had nothing in. But Daniel shook his head, and then gave a tremendous yawn. "Ah, well...bit tired, are we?"

"It's past his bedtime," Sherlock pointed out. "He has reason to be tired."

"Not tired," Daniel said, and then undermined his protest by wrapping thin arms around Sherlock's neck again and tucking his head under the man's chin.

"He seems quite taken with you," John observed in amusement.

"I am familiar to him," Sherlock rationalized, and John wasn't sure how he was supposed to take that. He had, admittedly, spent time puzzling over just what Sherlock and Lestrade might be to one another in the six months he had been living in Baker Street. Most days they appeared to be colleagues, though now and then John caught Lestrade casting a concerned eye over Sherlock's too-thin frame or the bruises he sometimes acquired from his private cases. And Sherlock's apparent easy familiarity with Daniel spoke to a deeper relationship – friends, at the least, for Lestrade to trust Sherlock so implicitly with his son. Perhaps more.

_Probably_ more, John concluded to himself, as Daniel curled his hand into Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock began to hum a tune he had been teasing out of his violin earlier that day.

"Home," Daniel mumbled suddenly into Sherlock's skin, interrupting any further inquiries John might have made. Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek on top of Daniel's hair.

"Soon," he soothed, and John was sure his own eyebrows disappeared into his hairline out of surprise at the uncharacteristic display of tenderness. "Your father needs to finish his case first."

"Daddy's working?" Daniel asked, pulling back so that he could look at Sherlock again through wide eyes. Sherlock exchanged a glance with John over the boy's head, and John got the hint. He slipped out of the kitchen and returned to his laptop, allowing them a moment alone. The door to the kitchen was still open slightly, and through it he heard the remainder of Sherlock's quiet conversation with Daniel.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and John saw from a glance into the kitchen that he was rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, swaying with Daniel on his hip. "Yes, your father is working."

"Daddy's always working," Daniel muttered.

"Your father is an important man." Sherlock threaded his fingers through the soft hair. "He must work."

"Like you?" Daniel asked, and Sherlock's answer was either too quiet for John to hear or never came, because the next thing he heard was Daniel mumbling an exhausted, "I miss you."

Lestrade came back up the stairs then, his footsteps drowning out any answer Sherlock might have given to that. He nodded to John and stepped into the kitchen, looking harried. The door slid shut behind him, and their voices were reduced to soft murmurs.

xxxx

Sherlock turned around at the sound of the door sliding shut, and Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.

"Sorry about that," he said, pocketing his mobile. "I hope he behaved."

"You were gone less than five minutes, Lestrade," Sherlock admonished. "How much trouble can he get into in that amount of time?"

"You'd be surprised." Lestrade walked over and laid a hand on Daniel's back. He peered into his son's face; saw that he was nearly asleep again. Sherlock shifted Daniel in his arms and grimaced.

"What have you been feeding this child?" he asked in quiet disdain. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Bricks and weights. _Food_, Sherlock; what'd you expect me to say?"

"Is it normal for him to weigh this much?"

"Yes, and it's called _growing_. It's what children do."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and leaned against the table, crossing one foot over the other and gazing down at Daniel while Lestrade looked on. He supported the boy with only one arm now that Daniel's weight was distributed evenly across his chest, and with the other he brushed light fingertips through the child's fine brown hair.

Lestrade knew that look on Sherlock's face, the one where his eyes narrowed slightly and made quick, staccato movements over whatever they were observing, flicking back and forth rapidly. He was committing Daniel to memory; adding him to his hard drive, corroborating what he saw now with what he had stored from the last time they had been together.

"It's been a while," Sherlock said finally, rousing Lestrade from his thoughts. His feet brushed against Sherlock's in the narrow space between table and counter as he shifted position, listening. "Since I've seen him, I mean."

"Yeah," Lestrade said softly. "He's grown a lot since Christmas."

Boxing Day, really; the last time they had all been together, because the detective had rung in the New Year with a concussion from a poorly-executed jump off a rooftop and then chased out the month of January with a serial killer and a pill that almost was the death of him. February had been busy on Lestrade's end, and in March Sherlock had taken on a stream of clients and a reckless number of risks, landing himself in hospital on two separate occasions.

And then there been the bombs, and the pool, and the phantom known as Moriarty.

"I've missed it," Sherlock said softly, and if Lestrade didn't know any better, he'd have said that Sherlock's tone was regretful. Piercing blue eyes, swirling with accusation and perhaps a touch of hurt, met his own. "You've been avoiding me."

And Lestrade could hardly deny this, and Sherlock wouldn't have appreciated it, so he simply said, "Yeah," again. Sherlock's face fell a fraction before he managed to hide it, and Lestrade felt a dull ache start up in his chest.

"I would've kept you safe; you know that, Greg," he said angrily. "Mycroft would have seen to it, if I'd asked."

"And would you have?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes were fierce. "For you. Both of you. Did you ever doubt it?"

"No," Lestrade said truthfully. "But it wasn't that. He was growing attached to you, Sherlock. And in the space of three months you nearly died at least three times, which frankly is a record for you. I couldn't - I couldn't do that to him. Especially after the pool."

Lestrade rubbed his shoulder absently. "It hurt him too much."

"And this isn't - won't - hurt me?" Sherlock said bitterly. "Or you?"

"He comes first," Lestrade said. "Always."

"But Moriarty is gone now," Sherlock pointed out.

"I know," Lestrade said. He'd been there at Bart's with John and Sherlock just last month, staring dumbly at the body of the small man who had caused so much destruction. Moriarty, consulting criminal, felled by a single bullet to the temple. "But I can't ask you to change, and you wouldn't appreciate it anyway. Your life - your life isn't exactly conducive to child-rearing."

"Neither is yours," Sherlock snapped. Daniel stirred in his arms; Sherlock stilled immediately, rubbing the back of the boy's neck until he quieted and fell deeper into sleep.

"I can't ask you to be something you're not," Lestrade said brokenly. "It'd work, for a while. But it would kill you, Sherlock. You know that."

"It wouldn't," Sherlock said quietly. "It's tedium that rots my brain, Lestrade; not domesticity. But I hardly find Daniel tedious; nor do I find him dull. He changes every moment of every day; he's inquisitive, and poses questions I myself admit are most intriguing, if sometimes a bit perplexing and amusing. He's a child, and he's fascinating."

His gaze flicked over Lestrade, and he added, "As are you."

"I couldn't ask you to give up the work," Lestrade whispered, knowing full well what methods Sherlock would turn to in order to ward off the fog of boredom.

"And I don't know that I would," Sherlock countered. "That's not quite the point, though, I feel. I'd not give up the work, and likely wouldn't change - but he would always be on my mind. And as such...I believe I would take certain precautions. More so than I have in the past, at any rate. I think you'd call that a compromise."

"You'd compromise for him?" Lestrade asked, surprised. Sherlock's mouth quirked.

"I'd do a great many things for your son, Lestrade," he said, and rested his cheek absently against Daniel's head. The image made Lestrade's breath catch in his throat.

"He misses you terribly," Lestrade said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them - and at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face, he found that he didn't _want_ to stop them. He added softly, "We both do."

"Stay," Sherlock said, voice cracking around the word. He swallowed.

"I really should get him home."

"You've stayed over with him before," Sherlock pointed out. "The bed's more than large enough."

Lestrade pushed himself off the counter and closed the distance between them, bending down to press his lips against Sherlock's. God, but he had missed this - missed the velvet lips and tender, probing tongue and the way Sherlock sank against him. An arm slid around his waist; Sherlock's other remained firmly wrapped around Daniel. Lestrade sighed, enveloping them both in an embrace.

"I have next Wednesday off," he said finally. "We were going to go to the museum; Daniel's been wanting to see the dinosaurs. Come with us?"

There was a pause, and then he felt Sherlock nod against his chest.

"Good." Lestrade dropped a kiss onto his head. "Come on, see us out."

Sherlock drew back from the embrace and straightened. Daniel stirred in his arms for the second time that night and, realizing that he was about to be handed back over to his father, began to whine.

"Stop," Sherlock commanded. The squirming child stilled immediately - and Lestrade never had managed to figure out how Sherlock pulled that off - and leaned back in Sherlock's arms to consider him solemnly. Sherlock curled a hand around the back of his neck and held Daniel in place while he kissed his forehead; then, with great reluctance, he passed the child back to Lestrade.

"I'll see you next week," he murmured to Daniel, swiping a thumb across his cheek.

"Promise?" the boy asked plaintively. Sherlock swallowed visibly, and that alone was nearly enough to break Lestrade's resolve right there.

_Christ_, how he had missed this.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice. "Yeah, I promise. I'll be there."

He ducked around Daniel to press his lips to Lestrade's, and his insistent fingers dug into the DI's neck.

"I promise."


End file.
